Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman by Neil Gaiman - Read Online



The #1 New York Times bestselling author's ultimate edition of his wildly successful first novel featuring his "preferred text"—and including his special Neverwhere tale "How the Marquis Got His Coat Back"

Published in 1997, Neil Gaiman's darkly hypnotic first novel, Neverwhere, heralded the arrival of a major talent and became a touchstone of urban fantasy. Over the years, a number of versions were produced both in the U.S. and the U.K. Now Gaiman's preferred edition of his classic novel reconciles these works and reinstates a number of scenes cut from the original published books.

Neverwhere is the story of Richard Mayhew, a young London businessman with a good heart and an ordinary life, which is changed forever when he discovers a girl bleeding on the sidewalk. He stops to help her—an act of kindness that plunges him into a world he never dreamed existed.

Slipping through the cracks of reality, Richard lands in the Neverwhere—a London of shadows and darkness, monsters and saints, murderers and angels that exists entirely in a subterranean labyrinth. The Neverwhere is home to Door, the mysterious girl Richard helped in the London Above. Door, a noblewoman whose family has been murdered, is on a quest to find the agent that slaughtered her family and thwart the destruction of this underworld kingdom. If Richard is ever to return to his former life, he must join the journey to save Door's world—and find a way to survive.

A hallucinatory fantasia of mystery, mythology, and terror that "draws equally from George Lucas, Monty Python, Doctor Who, and John Milton" (USA Today), Neverwhere is an "Alice in Wonderland with a punk edge" (Poppy Z. Brite), "that is both the stuff of dreams and nightmares" (San Diego Union-Tribune).

Published: HarperCollins on
ISBN: 9780061793059
List price: $12.99
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Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman

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Introduction to this Text

IT’S A GOOD BET that even if you’ve read Neverwhere before, you haven’t read this version of Neverwhere before.

Neverwhere began life, in the way these things do, as a television series I was asked to write for the BBC. And while the show that was broadcast was not necessarily a bad television series, I kept finding myself bumping up against the fact that what one saw on-screen simply wasn’t what I had in my head. A novel seemed the easiest way to get what I had had in my head into the insides of other people’s heads. Books are good that way.

Neverwhere as a novel began for me as we started making the BBC TV series of the same name, more or less as a way to keep my sanity. With every scene that was cut, every line that vanished, everything that was simply changed, I’d announce, ‘‘Not a problem. I’ll put it back in the novel," and thus regain my equilibrium. This went on until the day that the producer came over and said, ‘‘We’re cutting the scene on page twenty-four, and if you say I’ll put it back in the novel I’ll kill you."

After that, I only thought it.

What I wanted to do was to write a book that would do for adults what the books I had loved when younger, books like Alice in Wonderland, or the Narnia books, or The Wizard of Oz, did for me as a kid. And I wanted to talk about the people who fall through the cracks, to talk about the dispossessed—using the mirror of fantasy, which can sometimes show us things we have seen so many times that we never see them at all—for the very first time.

I started writing the novel on the day we started shooting the TV series, in January, in the kitchen of the South London flat in which we were filming. I finished it in May, in a hotel in a small town in Southern California.

It was published in August of that year, by the BBC. When Avon Books wanted to publish it, I jumped at the chance to, in essence, do a second draft of the novel. I locked myself in a hotel room in New York City’s World Trade Center, and I wrote for a week, adding material for Americans who might not know where Oxford Street was or what you’d find if you walked down it, and enjoying the opportunity to revisit the text, expanding and deepening it wherever I could. My editor at Avon Books, Jennifer Hershey, was a terrific and perceptive editor; our major disagreement was the jokes. She didn’t like them and was convinced that American readers would not be able to cope with jokes in a book that wasn’t meant solely to be funny. She wanted the second prologue gone, too, in which we got to meet Croup and Vandemar for the first time, before the story began, and although I missed it, I decided that she was right and moved the description of them into the text. (It’s reprinted here, at the back, in its original form, for the curious.)

By the time I was finished, I’d added around twelve thousand words and cut several thousand different words. Some of the words I was happy to lose. Others I missed.

This version of Neverwhere, assembled from the various drafts of the book with the aid of Pete Atkins from Hill House Publishers, combines the original UK text and the U.S. text, and then I removed a few of the redundancies and created a new, and I hope definitive, version of Neverwhere, along with a headache for bibliographers.

I don’t write sequels. Still, the world of Neverwhere is one that I hope, one day, I’ll return to. In a book called The Lost Rivers of London, I read about a brass bed found one day in a sewer. To this day, nobody knows where it came from or how it got there.

I bet de Carabas knows.



THE NIGHT BEFORE HE went to London, Richard Mayhew was not enjoying himself.

He had begun the evening by enjoying himself: he had enjoyed reading the good-bye cards, and receiving the hugs from several not entirely unattractive young ladies of his acquaintance; he had enjoyed the warnings about the evils and dangers of London, and the gift of the white umbrella with the map of the London Underground on it that the lads had clubbed together to buy him; he had enjoyed the first few pints of ale; but then, with each successive pint of ale he found he was enjoying himself significantly less; until now he was sitting and shivering on the sidewalk outside the pub in a small Scottish town, weighing the conflicting merits of being sick and not being sick, and not enjoying himself at all.

Inside the pub, Richard’s friends continued to celebrate his forthcoming departure, with an enthusiasm that, to Richard’s way of thinking, was beginning to border on the sinister. He sat on the sidewalk and held on tightly to the rolled-up umbrella, and wondered whether going south to London was really a good idea.

You want to keep an eye out, said a cracked old voice. They’ll be moving you on before you can say Jack Robinson. Or taking you in, I wouldn’t be surprised. Two sharp eyes stared out from a beaky, grimy face. You all right?

Yes, thank you, said Richard. He was a fresh-faced, boyish young man, with dark, slightly curly hair and large hazel eyes; he had a rumpled, just-woken-up look to him, which made him more attractive to the opposite sex than he would ever understand or believe.

The grimy face softened. Here, poor thing, she said, and pushed a fifty-pence piece into Richard’s hand. ’Ow long you been on the streets, then?

I’m not homeless, explained Richard, embarrassed, attempting to give the old woman her coin back. Please—take your money. I’m fine. I just came out here to get some air. I go to London tomorrow.

She peered down at him suspiciously, then took back her fifty pence and made it vanish beneath the layers of coats and shawls in which she was enveloped. I’ve been to London, she confided. I was married in London. But he was a bad lot. Me mam told me not to go marrying outside, but I was young and beautiful, although you’d never credit it today, and I followed my heart.

I’m sure you did, said Richard, embarrassed. The conviction that he was about to be sick was starting, slowly, to fade.

Fat lot of good it done me. I been homeless, so I know what it’s like, said the old woman. That’s why I thought you was. What you going to London for?

I’ve got a job, he told her proudly.

Doing what? she asked.

Um, securities, said Richard.

I was a dancer, said the old woman, and she tottered awkwardly around the sidewalk humming tunelessly to herself. Then she teetered from side to side like a spinning top coming to rest, and finally she stopped, facing Richard. Hold out your hand, she told him, and I’ll tell yer fortune. He did as he was told. She put her old hand into his, and held it tightly, and then she blinked a few times, like an owl who had swallowed a mouse that was beginning to disagree with it. You got a long way to go … , she said, puzzled.

London, Richard told her.

Not just London … The old woman paused. Not any London I know. It started to rain, then, softly. I’m sorry, she said. It starts with doors.


She nodded. The rain fell harder, pattering on the roofs and on the asphalt of the road. I’d watch out for doors if I were you.

Richard stood up, a little unsteadily. All right, he said, unsure of how one ought to treat information of this nature. I will. Thanks.

The pub door was opened, and light and noise spilled out into the street. Richard? You all right?

Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll be back in a second. The old lady was already wobbling down the street, into the pelting rain, getting wet. Richard felt he had to do something for her; he couldn’t give her money, though. He hurried after her, down the narrow street, the cold rain drenching his face and hair. Here, said Richard. He fumbled with the handle of the umbrella, trying to find the button that opened it. Then a click, and it blossomed into a huge white map of the London Underground network, each line drawn in a different color, every station marked and named.

The old woman took the umbrella, gratefully, and smiled her thanks. You’ve a good heart, she told him. Sometimes that’s enough to see you safe wherever you go. Then she shook her head. But mostly, it’s not. She clutched the umbrella tightly, as a gust of wind threatened to tug it away from her, or pull it inside out. She wrapped her arms around it, and bent almost double against the rain and the wind. Then she walked away into the rain and the night, a round white shape covered with the names of London Tube stations, Earl’s Court, Marble Arch, Blackfriars, White City, Victoria, Angel, Oxford Circus …

Richard found himself pondering, drunkenly, whether there really was a circus at Oxford Circus: a real circus with clowns and beautiful women, and dangerous beasts. The pub door opened once more: a blast of sound, as if the pub’s volume control had just been turned up high. Richard, you wanker, it’s your bloody party, and you’re missing all the fun. He walked back in the pub, the urge to be sick lost in all the oddness.

You look like a drowned rat, said someone.

You’ve never seen a drowned rat, said Richard.

Someone else handed him a large whisky. Here, get that down you. That’ll warm you up. You know, you won’t be able to get real Scotch in London.

I’m sure I will, sighed Richard. Water was dripping from his hair into his drink. They have everything in London. And he downed the Scotch, and after that someone bought him another, and then the evening blurred and broke up into fragments: afterward he remembered only the sense that he was leaving somewhere small and sensible that made sense for somewhere huge and old that didn’t; and vomiting interminably into a gutter flowing with rainwater, somewhere in the small hours of the morning; and a white shape marked with strange-colored symbols, like a little round beetle, walking away from him in the rain.

The next morning Richard got on the train to London for the six-hour journey south that would bring him to the strange Gothic spires and arches of St. Pancras Station. His mother gave him a small walnut cake that she had made for the journey and a thermos flask filled with tea; and Richard Mayhew went to London feeling like hell.


SHE HAD BEEN RUNNING for four days now, a harum-scarum tumbling flight through passages and tunnels. She was hungry, and exhausted, and more tired than a body could stand, and each successive door was proving harder to open. After four days of flight, she had found a hiding place, a tiny stone burrow, under the world, where she would be safe, or so she prayed, and at last she slept.

MR. CROUP HAD HIRED Ross at the last Floating Market, which had been held in Westminster Abbey. Think of him, he told Mr. Vandemar, as a canary.

Sings? asked Mr. Vandemar.

I doubt it; I sincerely and utterly doubt it. Mr. Croup ran a hand through his lank orange hair. No, my fine friend, I was thinking metaphorically—more along the lines of the birds they take down mines. Mr. Vandemar nodded, comprehension dawning slowly: yes, a canary. Mr. Ross had no other resemblance to a canary. He was huge—almost as big as Mr. Vandemar—and extremely grubby, and quite hairless, and he said very little, although he had made a point of telling each of them that he liked to kill things, and he was good at it; and this amused Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar, much as Genghis Khan might have been amused by the swagger of a young Mongol who had recently pillaged his first village or burnt his first yurt. He was a canary, and he never knew it. So Mr. Ross went first, in his filthy T-shirt and his crusted blue jeans, and Croup and Vandemar walked behind him, in their elegant black suits.

There are four simple ways for the observant to tell Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar apart: first, Mr. Vandemar is two and a half heads taller than Mr. Croup; second, Mr. Croup has eyes of a faded china blue, while Mr. Vandemar’s eyes are brown; third, while Mr. Vandemar fashioned the rings he wears on his right hand out of the skulls of four ravens, Mr. Croup has no obvious jewelry; fourth, Mr. Croup likes words, while Mr. Vandemar is always hungry. Also, they look nothing at all alike.

A rustle in the tunnel darkness; Mr. Vandemar’s knife was in his hand, and then it was no longer in his hand, and it was quivering gently almost thirty feet away. He walked over to his knife, and picked it up by the hilt. There was a gray rat impaled on the blade, its mouth opening and closing impotently as the life fled. He crushed its skull between finger and thumb.

Now, there’s one rat that won’t be telling any more tales, said Mr. Croup. He chuckled at his own joke. Mr. Vandemar did not respond. Rat. Tales. Get it?

Mr. Vandemar pulled the rat from the blade and began to munch on it, thoughtfully, head first. Mr. Croup slapped it out of his hands. Stop that, he said. Mr. Vandemar put his knife away, a little sullenly. Buck up, hissed Mr. Croup, encouragingly. There will always be another rat. Now: onward. Things to do. People to damage.

THREE YEARS IN LONDON had not changed Richard, although it had changed the way he perceived the city. Richard had originally imagined London as a gray city, even a black city, from pictures he had seen, and was surprised to find it filled with color. It was a city of red brick and white stone, red buses and large black taxis (which were often, to Richard’s initial puzzlement, gold, or green, or maroon), bright red postboxes, and green grassy parks and cemeteries.

It was a city in which the very old and the awkwardly new jostled each other, not uncomfortably, but without respect; a city of shops and offices and restaurants and homes, of parks and churches, of ignored monuments and remarkably unpalatial palaces; a city of hundreds of districts with strange names—Crouch End, Chalk Farm, Earl’s Court, Marble Arch—and oddly distinct identities; a noisy, dirty, cheerful, troubled city, which fed on tourists, needed them as it despised them, in which the average speed of transportation through the city had not increased in three hundred years, following five hundred years of fitful road widening and unskillful compromises between the needs of traffic, whether horse-drawn or, more recently, motorized, and the needs of pedestrians; a city inhabited by and teeming with people of every color and manner and kind.

When he had first arrived, he had found London huge, odd, fundamentally incomprehensible, with only the Tube map, that elegant multicolored topographical display of underground railway lines and stations, giving it any semblance of order. Gradually he realized that the Tube map was a handy fiction that made life easier, but bore no resemblance to the reality of the shape of the city above: like belonging to a political party, he thought once, proudly, and then, having tried to explain the resemblance between the Tube map and politics, at a party, to a cluster of bewildered strangers, he had decided in the future to leave political comment to others.

He continued, slowly, by a process of osmosis and white knowledge (which is like white noise, only more informative), to comprehend the city, a process which accelerated when he realized that the actual City of London itself was no bigger than a square mile, stretching from Aldgate in the east to Fleet Street and the law courts of the Old Bailey in the west, a tiny municipality, now home to London’s financial institutions, and that was where it had all begun.

Two thousand years before, London had been a little Celtic village on the north shore of the Thames which the Romans had encountered and settled in. London had grown, slowly, until, roughly a thousand years later, it met the tiny Royal City of Westminster immediately to the west, and, once London Bridge had been built, London met the town of Southwark directly across the river; and it continued to grow, fields and woods and marshland slowly vanishing beneath the flourishing town, and it continued to expand, encountering other little villages and hamlets as it grew, like Whitechapel and Deptford to the east, Hammersmith and Shepherd’s Bush to the west, Camden and Islington in the north, Battersea and Lambeth across the Thames to the south, absorbing all of them as it grew, just as a pool of mercury encounters and incorporates smaller beads of mercury, leaving only their names behind.

London grew into something huge and contradictory. It was a good place, and a fine city, but there is a price to be paid for all good places, and a price that all good places have to pay.

After a while, Richard found himself taking London for granted; in time, he began to pride himself on having visited none of the sights of London (except for the Tower of London, when his Aunt Maude came down to the city for a weekend, and Richard found himself her reluctant escort).

But Jessica changed all that. Richard found himself, on otherwise sensible weekends, accompanying her to places like the National Gallery and the Tate Gallery, where he learned that walking around museums too long hurts your feet, that the great art treasures of the world all blur into each other after a while, and that it is almost beyond the human capacity for belief to accept how much museum cafeterias will brazenly charge for a slice of cake and a cup of tea.

Here’s your tea, and your éclair, he told her. It would have cost less to buy one of those Tintorettos.

Don’t exaggerate, said Jessica, cheerfully. Anyway, there aren’t any Tintorettos at the Tate.

I should have had that cherry cake, said Richard. Then they would have been able to afford another van Gogh.

No, said Jessica, accurately, they wouldn’t.

Richard had met Jessica in France, on a weekend break in Paris two years earlier; had in fact discovered her in the Louvre, while trying to find the group of his office friends who had organized the trip. Staring up at an immense sculpture, he had stepped backward into Jessica, who was admiring an extremely large and historically important diamond. He tried to apologize to her in French, which he did not speak, and so gave up, and began to apologize in English, and then tried to attempt to apologize in French for his having to apologize in English, until he noticed that Jessica was about as English as it was possible for any one person to be, by which time she had him buy her an expensive French sandwich and some overpriced fizzy apple juice, by way of apology, and, well, that was the start of it all, really. He had never been able to convince Jessica that he wasn’t the kind of person who went to art galleries after that.

On weekends when they did not go to art galleries or to museums, Richard would trail behind Jessica as she went shopping, which she did, on the whole, in affluent Knightsbridge, a short walk and an even shorter taxi ride from her flat in a Kensington mews. Richard would accompany Jessica on her tours of such huge and intimidating emporia as Harrods and Harvey Nichols, stores where Jessica was able to purchase anything, from jewelry, to books, to the week’s groceries.

Richard had been awed by Jessica, who was beautiful, and often quite funny, and was certainly going somewhere. And Jessica saw in Richard an enormous amount of potential, which, properly harnessed by the right woman, would have made him the perfect matrimonial accessory. If only he were a little more focused, she would murmur to herself, and so she gave him books with titles like Dress for Success and A Hundred and Twenty-Five Habits of Successful Men, and books on how to run a business like a military campaign, and Richard always said thank you, and always meant to read them. In Harvey Nichols’s men’s fashion department she would pick out for him the kinds of clothes she thought that he should wear—and he wore them, during the week, anyway; and, a year to the day after their first encounter, she told him she thought it time that they went shopping for an engagement ring.

Why do you go out with her? asked Garry, in Corporate Accounts, eighteen months later. She’s terrifying.

Richard shook his head. She’s really sweet, once you get to know her.

Garry put down the plastic troll he had picked up from Richard’s desk. I’m surprised she still lets you play with these.

The subject has never come up, said Richard, picking up one of the creatures from his desk. It had a shock of Day-Glo orange hair and a slightly baffled expression, as if it were lost.

The subject had indeed come up. Jessica had, however, convinced herself that Richard’s troll collection was a mark of endearing eccentricity, comparable to Mr. Stockton’s collection of angels. Jessica was in the process of organizing a traveling exhibition of Mr. Stockton’s angel collection, and had come to the conclusion that great men always collected something. In actuality Richard did not really collect trolls. He had found a troll on the street outside the office and, in a vague and pretty vain attempt at injecting a little personality into his working world, he had placed it on his computer monitor. The others had followed over the next few months, gifts from colleagues who had noticed that Richard had a penchant for the ugly little creatures. He had taken the gifts and positioned them strategically about his desk, beside the telephones and the framed photograph of Jessica. Today, the photograph had a yellow Post-it note stuck to it.

It was a Friday afternoon. Richard had noticed that events were cowards: they didn’t occur singly, but instead they would run in packs and leap out at him all at once. Take this particular Friday, for example. It was, as Jessica had pointed out to him at least a dozen times in the last month, the most important day of his life. Not the most important day of her life, of course. That would come one day in the future, when, Richard had no doubt, they would make her Prime Minister, or Queen, or God. But it was, without question, the most important day of his life. So it was unfortunate that, despite the Post-it note Richard had left on his fridge door at home, and the other Post-it note he had placed on the photograph of Jessica on his desk, he had forgotten about it completely and utterly.

Also, there was the Wandsworth Report, which was overdue and taking up most of his head. Richard checked another row of figures; then he noticed that page 17 had vanished and he set it up to print out again; and another page down, and he knew that if he were only left alone to finish it … if, miracle of miracles, the phone did not ring … It rang. He thumbed the speakerphone.

Hello? Richard? The Managing Director needs to know when he’ll have the report.

Richard looked at his watch. Five minutes, Sylvia. It’s almost wrapped up. I just have to attach the P & L projection.

Thanks, Dick. I’ll come down for it. Sylvia was, as she liked to explain, the MD’s PA, and she moved in an atmosphere of crisp efficiency. He thumbed the speakerphone off; it rang again, immediately. Richard, said the speaker, with Jessica’s voice, it’s Jessica. You haven’t forgotten, have you?

Forgotten? He tried to remember what he could have forgotten. He looked at Jessica’s photograph for inspiration, and found all the inspiration he could have needed in the shape of a yellow Post-it note stuck to her forehead.

Richard? Pick up the telephone.

He picked up the phone, reading the Post-it note as he did so. Sorry, Jess. No, I hadn’t forgotten. Seven P.M., at Ma Maison Italiano. Should I meet you there?

Jessica, Richard. Not Jess. She paused for a moment. After what happened last time? I don’t think so. You really could get lost in your own back garden, Richard.

Richard contemplated pointing out that anyone could have confused the National Gallery with the National Portrait Gallery, and that it wasn’t she who had spent the whole day standing in the rain (which was in his opinion every bit as much fun as walking around either place until his feet hurt), but he thought better of it.

I’ll meet you at your place, said Jessica. We can walk down together.

Right, Jess. Jessica—sorry.

"You have confirmed our reservation, haven’t you, Richard."

Yes, lied Richard earnestly. The other phone on his desk had begun to ring, shrilly. Jessica, look, I—

Good, said Jessica, and she broke the connection. The largest amount of money Richard had ever spent on anything had been spent on Jessica’s engagement ring, eighteen months earlier, at one of Harrods’ many jewelry concessions. He picked up the other phone.

Hi, Dick, said Garry. It’s me, Garry. Garry sat a few desks down from Richard. He waved at Richard from his own, gleamingly troll-free, desk. Are we still on for drinks? You said we could go over the Merstham account.

Get off the bloody phone, Garry. Of course we are. Richard put down the phone. There was a telephone number at the bottom of the Post-it note; Richard had written the Post-it note to himself, several weeks earlier. And he had made the reservation: he was almost certain of that. But he had not confirmed it. He had kept meaning to, but there had been so much to do and Richard had known that there was plenty of time. But events run in packs …

Sylvia was now standing next to him. Dick? The Wandsworth Report?

Almost ready, Sylvia. Look, just hold on a sec, can you?

He finished punching in the number, breathed a sigh of relief when somebody answered, Ma Maison. Can I help you?

Yes, said Richard. A table for three, for tonight. I think I booked it. And if I did I’m confirming the reservation. And if I didn’t, I wondered if I could book it. Please. No, they had no record of a table for tonight in the name of Mayhew. Or Stockton. Or Bartram—Jessica’s surname. And as for booking a table …

It wasn’t the words that Richard found so unpleasant: it was the tone of voice in which the information was transmitted. A table for tonight should certainly have been booked years before, perhaps, it was implied, by Richard’s parents. A table for tonight was impossible: if the Pope, the Prime Minister and the President of France arrived this evening without a confirmed reservation, even they would be turned out into the street with a continental jeer. "But it’s for my fiancée’s boss. I know I should have phoned before. There are only three of us, can’t you please—"

They had put down the phone.

Richard? said Sylvia. The MD’s waiting.

Do you think, asked Richard, they’d give me a table if I phoned back and offered them extra money?

IN HER DREAM THEY were all together in the house. Her parents, her brother, her baby sister. They were standing together in the ballroom, staring at her. They were all so pale, so grave. Portia, her mother, touched her cheek, and told her that she was in danger. In her dream, Door laughed, and said she knew. Her mother shook her head: no, no—now she was in danger. Now.

Door opened her eyes. The door was opening, quietly, quietly; she held her breath. Footsteps, quiet on the stone. Perhaps he won’t notice me, she thought. Perhaps he’ll go away. And then she thought, desperately, I’m hungry.

The footsteps hesitated. She was well hidden, she knew, under a pile of newspapers and rags. And it was possible that the intruder meant her no harm. Can’t he hear my heartbeat? she thought. And then the footsteps came closer, and she knew what she had to do and it scared her. A hand pulled the covers off her, and she looked up into a blank, utterly hairless face, which creased into a vicious smile. She rolled, then, and twisted, and the knife blade, aimed at her chest, caught her in the upper arm.

Until that moment, she had never thought she could do it. Never thought she would be brave enough, or scared enough, or desperate enough to dare. But she reached up one hand to his chest, and she opened

He gasped, and tumbled onto her. It was wet and warm and slippery, and she slithered and staggered out from under the man, and she stumbled out of the room.

She caught her breath in the tunnel outside, narrow and low, as she fell against the wall, breathing in gasps and sobs. That had taken the last of her strength; now she was spent. Her shoulder was beginning to throb. The knife, she thought. But she was safe.

My, oh my, said a voice from the darkness on her right. She survived Mister Ross. Well I never, Mister Vandemar. The voice oozed. It sounded like gray slime.

Well I never either, Mister Croup, said a flat voice on her left.

A light was kindled and flickered. Still, said Mr. Croup, his eyes gleaming in the dark beneath the earth, she won’t survive us.

Door kneed him, hard, in the groin, and then she began, randomly, to run, her right hand holding her left shoulder.

And she ran.


Richard waved away the interruption. Life was almost under his control, now. Just a little more time …

Garry said his name again. Dick? It’s six thirty.

"It’s what?" Papers and pens and spreadsheets and trolls were tumbled into Richard’s briefcase. He snapped it shut and ran.

He pulled his coat on as he went. Garry was following. Are we going to have that drink, then?


We were meant to be getting together this evening to talk about the Merstham account. Remember?

That was tonight? Richard paused for a moment. If ever, he decided, they made disorganization an Olympic sport, he could be disorganized for Britain. Garry, he said, I’m sorry. I blew it. I have to see Jessica tonight. We’re taking her boss out to dinner.

"Mister Stockton? Of Stocktons? The Stockton? Richard nodded. They hurried down the stairs. I’m sure you’ll have fun, said Garry, insincerely. And how is the Creature from the Black Lagoon?"

Jessica’s from Ilford, actually, Garry. And she remains the light and love of my life, thank you very much for asking. By which time they were in the lobby, and Richard made a dart for the automatic doors, which spectacularly failed to open.

It’s after six, Mister Mayhew, said Mr. Figgis, the building’s security guard. You have to sign out.

I don’t need this, said Richard to no one in particular, I really don’t.

Mr. Figgis smelt vaguely of medicinal liniment and was widely rumored to have an encyclopedic collection of soft-core pornography. He guarded the doors with a diligence that bordered upon madness, never quite having lived down the evening when an entire floor’s worth of computer equipment upped and left, along with two potted palms and the Managing Director’s Axminster carpet.

So our drink’s off, then?

I’m sorry, Garry. Is Monday okay for you?

Sure. Monday’s fine. See you Monday.

Mr. Figgis inspected their signatures and satisfied himself they had no computers, potted palms or carpets about their persons, then he pressed a button under his desk, and the door slid open.

Doors, said Richard.

THE UNDERWAY BRANCHED AND divided; she picked her way at random, ducking through tunnels, running and stumbling and weaving. Behind her strolled Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar, as calmly and cheerfully as Victorian dignitaries visiting the Crystal Palace exhibition. When they arrived at a crossroads, Mr. Croup would kneel, and find the nearest spot of blood, and they would follow it. They were like hyenas, exhausting their prey. They could wait. They had all the time in the world.

LUCK WAS WITH RICHARD, for a change. He caught a black taxi, driven by a particularly enthusiastic taxi driver who took Richard home by an unlikely route involving streets Richard had never previously noticed, while holding forth, as Richard had discovered all London taxi drivers will hold forth—given a living, breathing, English-speaking passenger—on London’s inner-city traffic problems, how best to deal with crime, and thorny political issues of the day. Richard jumped out of the cab, leaving a tip and his briefcase behind, managed